Tales Concerning Smeagol
by Freddy K
Summary: The first part of the Tales I'm writing. Explores childhood and the life of Smeagol, and is a good read for those of you who crave more about your favorite character, even if it is fanfiction.


The First Part of the **Tales Concerning Smeagol.**

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, including Smeagol Deagol, his grandmother, the Aduin River, or any of the concepts of hobbits, or anything else Lord of the Rings. All of these belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and are copyright and owned by the Tolkien estate. This is a work of fiction, and should not be considered a real part of The Hobbit, or the Trilogy. (although it would be nice.)

Author's Note: This story begins with a little character development, and centers around Smeagol's and Deagol's childhood days. I'm going to continue this pattern of exploring their youth and up to the finding of the Ring, and further and may even add in Smeagol's birth. But I'm not quite sure. If you're wondering, the story is mostly suggested for people who crave to know more about their favorite hobbit, even if all they can get is fan fiction. Also, on the subject of calling them "hobbits" I'm aware that it's technically not true, and that they were called "River Folk" and the father's of the father's of Stoors (since I've read the book numerous times) but how awkward would that be to say it? Hobbit is a nice simple word.

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**An Eventful Afternoon**

On the banks of the Great River Anduin, two little hobbit-boys played. The first, Deagol,the eldest at seven years, and a tiny lad of sandy hair, was busying himself prowling about for snails. He was fascinated by them, and wished very much to know what would happen if he removed its shell. One can only hope that his sharp eyes would prove him wrong this day. The second not over five, christened Smeagol, with head crowned in dark curls was up to his elbows in dirt, digging up part of his grandmother's garden, which was a very naughty thing to do. Smeagol didn't care for the actual bloom; rather, he liked the spindly hairs that his father had said were 'roots'. Why did the flowers have them, and where did a flower begin? Was it from the roots or petals? He would very much like to know.

The afternoon shone golden, and Smeagol squinted his pale eyes, and wished that a cloud would pass over the sun. Perhaps even make it rain, and that would be better.

"Deagol, how does the flowers grow?" He called to his friend, eyes still upon the unearthed iris. His voice sounded small in the lazy air. Deagol looked up from the unfortunate snail he'd been poking with a stick.

"You don't _know_? Everyone knows they start from seeds." He said, and his young voice was tainted with mockery. Smeagol did not answer right away, and his round cheeks burned with frustration and embarrassment.

"I knew it. I just wanted to see if you knew." He lied, and his words were quick and cunning, although his face showed he felt otherwise.

Just then around the bend, strolled his father, and Smeagol dropped his blossom. His father's quick eyes liken to his own, spotted him and the child could see that they were not at all friendly.

"Smeagol! Smeagol lad," He called, although he was not far away. Smeagol stood up, and tried to wipe away the dirt from his blouse and trousers before his father caught him by the nape of his neck.

"You are in a mighty spot of trouble, boy," He growled. "You're late to tea and if you're mother were alive, she'd be in a row, mark me." Then his gaze perceived the exhumed garden and he nearly dropped his child.

The father, Hugol was, during the mornings and late evenings, a very gentle kind, who spoke little and when he did it was to tell his son about how to fish, or have hot tea with his own mother. But during noon and after till about six, his temper was likely to fly, for he just had gotten off work and he was tired. He was a man of order, and wanted things done in a certain manner and when they didn't come about, his voice was oft raised.

It was about a quarter after four o' clock now.

"What-what in lord and lady have you done?" He cried. Not waiting for any reply, and not wanting one, he took Smeagol by the ear and dragged him up the path to his grandmother's house, giving his son dirty looks along the way. Close behind, Deagol followed, making sure not to be seen. He wanted a peek at his friend's scolding.

The house was large, as it would be for any well-to-do hobbit, and was the picture of luxury. It had many windows, and a thatched roof, and was made from the wood of the many birch trees that grew around the area. Smeagol often played here and listened to his grandmother's old stories. They would always have tea and cakes and fish aplenty. It was usually a place that brought pleasant thoughts, but today Smeagol looked upon it with doom.

Hugol knocked upon the door. "Mother?" He called. In a few seconds an old hobbit woman by the name of Rosemary, came right to the door, walking stick in hand. She was the head of the family, and had a very stern look about her most of the time, and certainly now, since she'd been interrupted from her tea. She appeared frail, but she was has hard as a chestnut.

"Yes, what is it? It is high time for tea, why aren't you at home?" She asked, and looked down at her grandson in question. Smeagol wanted desperately to hide behind his father's leg, but Hugol would have none of that.

"Pardon my bad manners mum, we would both be home right now, but my son has something to tell you." He pushed Smeagol forward. His grandmother looked down at him. "Well, what is it, lad? Pray tell your nanny." She commanded.

Smeagol, who had a look of complete terror on his face, swallowed. "I...I wanteda looks at the flowers..." He began.

"Well, you certainly did." His father interrupted. "Tore them up, is what. I ought to-"

"Silence, Hugol," The grandmother said. "If you want to teach him anything, you'd have the sense to let him say what he did and let me have my way with him."

Smeagol's father was about to reply but he closed his mouth and said no more. It was useless to argue with her since she almost always outwitted him.

She had turned back to her grandson. "Start again, Smeagol." The hobbit-boy took a deep breath and repeated his folly once more.

"I wants to know what makes flowers grow, and I...dug them up a bits." He admitted, wanting to look away.

"Tore up my flowers did you?" She said, and put her hands on both hips heatedly. "And I suppose you'd like to replant them? You should be apologizing to Jeffrey." Jeffrey was the family's gardener and very respectable. He was the nicest hobbit Smeagol had ever talked to about plants and trees and everything else. Smeagol was pained to think of what he would say when he learned of what he'd done.

"Step in here, boy, straightaway without a fuss, or I'll have your hide on my wall." She said and Smeagol complied, shaking thoroughly. He was sure he was going to get the beating of his life. His grandmother lifted her eyes back to Hugol.

"I'll send him home when I'm through with him. Good day." She said, and closed the door.

The main room was lighted with many lamps that she collected, and cluttered (though, to hobbits it was not what they would call cluttered) with many things, mostly pictures and books, lots of books. Smeagol hadn't learned his letters yet, but his grandmother would read to him some nights, and taught him the riddles of old. She was his favorite, so she often said, but she was also the hardest on him, because she knew he had something others did not.

She walked over to the bookcase, which was overstuffed with reading material and looked at him. He didn't want to meet her eyes, but when he did, he was surprised that the anger had left them. They were warmer and even comforting.

"Smeagol, come here." She said, and he came, hands in his pockets and his head down.

"Look at me," She said, and she pulled out a book. It had a vine pattern on its cover and nothing more.

"If you like flowers, you can look through this," and she knelt down, and opened to a page that was yellowed with age. The book was obviously about gardening, and the different plant varieties along the River Anduin. She pointed to a drawing of a seed.

"You see, the flower starts from a seed, and when it storms and the rain falls, the seed sprouts and a stem and grows out of the ground. There are a lot of different kinds-"

"I like the rootses. Just the rootses." He said quietly.

"Roots, eh?" She smiled grimly closing the book and placed it back on its shelf, then went over and stirred her tea, which had grown cold. "Shameful waste," She said, and poured it into the basin. Smeagol still stood by the bookcase, not knowing what to do. She looked at him meaningfully.

"You're going to help Jeffrey replant this afternoon until it's done. Don't even think about going home or leaving early to go for a swim." She said whilst buttering her bread and refilling her teacup. "I really should give you a beating," and when Smeagol stiffened she shook her head. "But I'm getting too old for that now,"

When she had finished with her sup, she had Smeagol clear up and help wash the dishes, and then they went and sat in her favorite chair. She sat her grandson on her lap.

"You like the roots, and you like to dig underground, that's so? That's just my luck, you'll be a mole yet. Jeffrey will have more work cut out for him." She sighed. You're mother never did like to look at flowers.

"I always thought she was a peculiar child. I love them, so does your father. I'd like to keep them, if you don't mind." She said and there was a twinkle in her eye. "You Smeagol, remind me so much of her, but there's something about you...you won't understand till the time comes of course, people rarely do. But your attraction to darkness may get you into trouble one day. It may even be your undoing."

Smeagol looked up at her with eyes straining to understand, but it was beyond his knowledge. She gazed out the window with sad eyes, and in that instant she looked very old, and very worn. The wrinkles around her eyes were accentuated and her hair was white and thin. They sat together for some time with only silence between them.

His grandmother looked up suddenly after a bit and was about to say something but then stilled her face. "Tell me, Smeagol," She said at last," Who was with you in the garden? I could have sworn there was a little one behind you when you came to my doorstep."

The boy nodded. "Deagol was looking for some snailses. Nasty, he wanted to take off the shells." And he bit his lip, hiding a smile. That would serve him for making a fool out of Smeagol.

"And I suppose he put you up to coming to my garden in the first place?" Rosemary said urgently, keeping her voice low. Smeagol nodded once more, liking the whole of this situation all too much. His grandmother lifted him off her lap and silently went over to the open window and as quick as a snake to a rabbit, she had hauled up Deagol by his hair and dropped him on the floor. He lay there on his back, blinking rapidly and his mouth wide open. He was in shock.

"Did you really think I wouldn't hear you?" Rosemary raised her voice and shook her finger. "My ears aren't worn out just yet Deagol Burrows. I say!" And she threw her arms up into the air. She was back to being harder than a chestnut and her rage was all anew.

"Young hobbits, the lot of you!" She took him by the shirt and hauled him out of her front door, dragging Smeagol with an equally strong grip. She pushed them out onto the step.

"Go home you two, go home, and go away!" And with that she shut her door firmly.

Smeagol and Deagol, reunited, stood on the porch and stared at one another, quite relieved that they had gotten off without their bottoms smarting.

"I say that went pretty well." Deagol said, putting his hands behind his braces and smiling. "Let's go for a swim!"

With that the two young hobbits ran toward the gentle waters and onto the setting sun of evening, their troubles far behind them both in mind and spirit.

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Author's Note: Thank you for reading and I'm sorry if I made any conventional error's or bored you to death. I'm only writing to entertain myself, mostly, and I hope that's enough. It would be splendid if you gave a review, I'd appreciated it.

P.S. This is only the first part of my Tales Concerning Smeagol as I previously stated. There will be more hopefully if I don't get eaten by wild animals, or hit by a bus. There's always that chance.


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